Someone to Save Me
by LAZYcrazyMISFIT
Summary: AUhetalia. Arthur is the younger brother of a particularly rough Scott, and he's tired of being alone. He wants someone to help, anyone to help. However, he doesn't realize that you can't be saved unless you're willing to be. And admitting that he needs help is not one of Arthur's talents. WARNING: SCOTT'S LANGUAGE


**Hey guys! **

**I know what of few of you are probably thinking: "Why is she writing this instead of a new 'We No Speak' chapter?" Let's just say I'm in the mood for some depressing crap, and leave it at that, shall we? **

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA OR ANY OTHER SHIZNIT LIKE THAT.**

Arthur looked up at his older brother, Scott, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past five minutes. The red head was lazily munching on a biscuit that their Mother had made by Scott's "request", namely calling her useless and a whole lot worse. This act made the woman run out of the room at the first opportunity she got, and Arthur could still hear her sobbing, no matter how hard she tried to cover it up with pillows and blankets, which Arthur was sure were piled on top of her head. He winced at the sound, but didn't make a move to help her.

Arthur, in fact, did not want to be there. He wanted to go to his bedroom and read, just be alone. He enjoyed others' company, no doubt. He especially enjoyed the company of the few close friends he had in school, but being in only the fourth grade, he wasn't old enough to get a phone yet, which would enable him to be able to call for help. The one person sitting beside him on the couch was the last one who he wanted to be close to right now, and he'd hurt Arthur before. He'd slam him into the wall and scream in his face when no one was home, and blame the fight on Arthur doing some trivial thing that somehow managed to greatly piss off the Scott. He'd twist his wrists and call him horrible things, and once he'd even gone as far as to dig his fingernails into the younger's wrist, leaving marks that stayed there for days. Needless to say, after that he was more careful in how he hurt the younger boy, and he never left proof anymore. At the time of the incident, Arthur had just turned seven.

"Hey twat… go fetch me a fag!"

The younger was brought out of his reverie by the harsh sound of his older brother's voice, and he flinched as a not-completely extinguished butt of a cigarette was thrown at his cheek. Arthur glared at his brother, and he slowly got up to go fetch him a cig from his stash in his brother's room. As he returned, he expected to be able to give his brother the cigarette and get away to seek refuge in his room. However, what happened was a completely different story.

"You're useless, you fucking piece of rubbish! You got the wrong damned brand again! How many times do I have to drill it through your thick skull that I don't smoke this worthless shit, you brat! Do it again, and you'll regret being brought into this world you little arse! I'll have you know that-"

Arthur had had enough, so he ran into his brother's room, got him the cig of another brand, practically threw it at him, and ran to his room. He locked his door for good measure, and picked up his favorite book, and began to cling onto each written word as though his life depended on it. Its story was sad, and some would say that Arthur liked to wallow in self-pity and that he clung to it for sympathy, but nothing was farther from the truth.

The truth was that he liked to cry. He relished the feeling of hot, angry tears falling from his eyes, and he never wanted it to stop. It reminded him that he wasn't like his brother, who never cried. It was times like these that he wanted to cry, and cry, and cry, and cry. Cry until the small valley that his house resided in flooded, crying until he drowned on his own tears, and until his brother regretted everything. Crying so much that the world would finally know his pain, his fear, and his dream of a little flood in the valley.

Times like this were a way to practice his dream, he would start crying from something mean that his brother would say, and then he'd cry until he couldn't find a reason to cry anymore. He'd cry for those that he loved, but could never tell. He'd cry for those he didn't know, but saw. He'd cry for that homeless woman he saw on the street, trying to collect change on a cold winter's day. He cried for his favourite book characters whose lives were tragic, and he's cry for those who seemed happy too.

Most of all, he cried and prayed to God that one day, someone would be his friend. Someone who he could tell everything, and never leave. Someone who could understand and help him. Someone who always tried to make him feel better, even if they didn't really know what to do. He had prayed for this person for so many years, and he clung to the hope that one day, he'd have that person. Someone would appear, someday. But for now, he was all alone, and even at the age of eleven, his bed felt cold and lonely, much like the rest of his short life had. He had literally cried himself to exhaustion on many occasions, and he was a seasoned pro at avoiding detection, but tonight he fell asleep crying not because of someone, but in hope of someone, anyone.

He clasped his hands together once more and prayed yet again in a small, barely audible whisper as the moon shone down into his room, illuminating everything with its soft, silvery light.

"_Lord, please give me a friend. Please give me someone in my life who could possibly help me, comfort me, and give me hope. Someone, anyone? Please let someone like me, and not care about my faults, let someone not hate me… Let someone save me from being so lonely. Please God. Please. Let-"_

Arthur's fervent prayer was broken by a yawn, and he lay his head on the tear-soaked pillow as his eyelids began to grow heavy.

"_Let someone... love me…" _He drawled off before drowsily adding, "_Amen."_

**Yup, I'm in a depressing mood. Single's awareness day (Valentine's day) is coming up, and I'm relatively sure that no one will send me a Valentine. I also have had a particularly bad week, so this is the product of that sappy, overly-dramatic side of me that goes home, does homework with a scowl, and gorges herself with Nutella (I don't own the brand by the way) until she finishes said homework, and goes to bed scowling at the clock. And thus, the angsty writer comes out to grace you with her depressing presence. **

**Sorry to be so sappy and sad, but what do you expect from an overly-dramatic teenager who loves to write angst?**

**Anyways, let your upcoming week be better than mine was! *smiles***

**~Misfit**

**PLEASE REVIEW SO I KNOW IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE THIS. **


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